


The End Of Your Rope

by witch_brew



Category: Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novels)
Genre: Depression, Drinking, Eye Trauma, Gen, Insomnia, Kidnapping, Murder, Nightmares, Other, Skinning, Someone take my computer away, Suicidal Ideation, Suicidal Thoughts, Themes of suicide, Torture, as usual, ask to tag, dark themes, flaying, gender neutral reader, hand trauma, i wrote another gross, listen i got carried away, maybe ill let you live one of these days, noncon, referenced self harm, this one's bad folks, you die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 02:46:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16823578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witch_brew/pseuds/witch_brew
Summary: You never thought you'd live this long. You won't live much longer, though.





	The End Of Your Rope

**Author's Note:**

> LMAO A LONGER ONE AND ITS SO MUCH WORSE THAN USUAL. IM GROSS. I THOUGHT ABOUT INVOLVING PEE BUT FIGURED THAT WOULD BE A LITTLE TOO MUCH ANYWAY LEAVE ME A COMMENT IF YOU WANT MORE HORROR PORN LMAO. THIS WAS ALSO A VENT PIECE SO SORRY ABOUT ALL THE DEPRESSION

You weren't supposed to live this long.

You've been ready to die for a long time now, waiting for the inevitable. Waiting for the final push, something to make you make that leap. 

(You'll be grateful for the life you had by the end of this. You'll wish you could go back.)

But here you are, an adult with a life and a job and a home, however crappy all of those things can be. You're surviving, scraping by.

At night you wake up sobbing from nightmares or memories or both. 

You don't sleep enough and people tell you how tired you look but all you offer in reply is an uncomfortable, tight smile. False. Everything you do is a lie. 

You even have friends, somehow. You're certain they hate you, really, but you can't seem to stay away from them for long. 

It's a cycle. You isolate until you're half dead, then you come clawing up for air, the natural instinct to be seen and known overpowering your urge to give up. 

You've called in to work again today. Your boss sounded a bit impatient with you. They might fire you, and maybe that'll give you the courage to finally fix your problem for good. 

For all the good in your life, there's been even more bad. You've had more than your fair share of suffering. 

(You'll have more before it's all said and done.)

You lie in bed all day, forgetting to eat or drink or talk to somebody. But around six at night, your phone goes off. You ignore it. It goes off a second time, and then a third. 

On the fourth time you snatch it up and answer, grunting something along the lines of “what?” but too quiet to really be made out. 

It's one of your friends. They went by your job today and saw you weren't there. 

You lie, say you had a migraine. Say you're fine. The usual lies. 

“Are you feeling better?” They ask, and you sigh. 

They might come over if you say no. They'd want to help. 

You say you're fine. 

“Excellent! I'm coming to get you then, we're going to a bar!” 

You groan but they've already hung up. You look at the time on your phone screen. You probably have thirty minutes. 

You don't have the energy to shower, don't have time to wash laundry, so you do as one does and make do. 

Deodorant, mouthwash, ruffling your hair to try and hide how gross you actually are. 

You spray your least gross clothes with fabric freshener and get dressed. 

You wonder if you should eat something. You won't hold your alcohol well on an empty stomach. You don't really like drinking anyway, it makes you feel worse. Maybe you can get away with nursing your drink and eating your weight in bar pretzels. 

A knock on your door and you sigh. Here goes nothing. 

-

The bar is quieter than some of the places you've been drug to, and you're thankful for that. It's not wild, there's not brain-melting music blasting wall to wall. You can handle the background noise of idle chatter, occasionally broken by loud laughter. 

You sit with your friend and their boyfriend, staying mostly quiet. You're exhausted. 

They buy you a drink, and you sip at it without tasting it, nodding along to the drone of their voices. You can't focus on anything. You're adrift, disconnecting from your body. You stare at hands that don't feel like yours and give your head a shake, trying to focus. Trying to get rid of the static, numb desensitization working its way through you. 

You look around, for something to focus on, and that's when you notice him staring at you. 

He doesn't look away when you catch him, either. 

He smiles, golden eyes crinkling, and raises his glass towards you before chugging half. 

He looks away then, and eventually he goes to chat up some pretty blonde. You stare a bit longer, noting the scar along his jaw, the stubble, the fact that; like you, his hair could use a wash. 

He leaves, pausing at the door to look back at you. He's caught you staring. 

He winks, and you look away, feeling your face heat. 

(The blonde he was talking to leaves a few minutes later, but never makes it home.)

What's wrong with you?

You end up drinking more than you meant to, and your friend has to help you inside your apartment. You're too far gone to be ashamed of how disgusting you've let it become. 

They lower you into bed and tell their boyfriend to go home, and then they start cleaning. 

“You can't keep doing this,” they say.

“Sometimes,” you reply, “I want to disappear.”

You fall asleep shortly after that, and they're gone when you wake, but there's a clean glass of water and a couple painkillers on your bedside table. You don't remember what you said to them, and you don't know. 

(You don't know that it's going to make what happens next way easier for him.)

-

For a few days you go back to normal. You find the energy to wash, to go to work, to keep your apartment sort of clean. 

It's a challenge, but you're managing. You know if you slip up again it could be the last time. 

You remember the man with the pretty eyes. You wonder if you'd see him again if you went back to that bar. 

You've never hooked up casually, but maybe it'd be fun. You could use some fun. 

(You are not going to find it.)

So, on your next day off, you go back to that bar. 

Alone. 

He's not there when you get there, and you fight off the swell of disappointment. 

(Did you know recklessness is common in people like you?)

You order a drink, then a second one. You didn't eat again today, and it's not long before the alcohol fogs your mind. You ignore the swelling pit of sadness in your belly, but it's getting harder. You move away from the bar, over to a table in the corner. You nurse your fourth beer, not wanting to end the night with your head in a toilet. Or worse, your head in a noose. 

Part of you is still too scared to make that leap, but you think enough alcohol might push you to it. 

You feel your edges start to blur again, but before you can sink any further, a hand on your shoulder startles you out of it. 

“Hey, buddy!” A warm, accented voice greets. 

You look up, startled, and it's him. 

He looks r e a l l y pleased to see you.

You smile shakily at him, realizing you have no idea how to talk to strangers. Especially not strangers you find attractive. 

“H-hi,” you say, meekly. 

He slides into the chair across from you, and you nervously try to sip your beer, instead spilling it down your shirt. 

“Shit!” You hiss, jumping up. 

He laughs, but it's not mean. 

“Oh jeez, buddy, you seem tense.” He stands. “I have a spare shirt in my car if-?” 

He leaves the question open. 

His car? You brain is still muddled from drink. He seems innocent enough, and the beer on your chest is cold, and you don't want to smell like that all night. 

You nod. On the way out, you remember to ask his name. 

“Oh,” he says, all smiles, “I'm Strade.” 

He's parked a bit out of the way, farther away from the bar than you expected. 

“The shirt's in my passenger seat, go ahead and grab it, I have to get something from my trunk.” 

You obey him, opening up the car door and looking around for the shirt. You don't see it. You place your hand on the inside of the door to steady yourself, and that's when you notice there's no door handle. 

And then something slams into the back of your skull, and you don't notice anything anymore. 

-

When you wake up, your hands are tied behind your back, and Strade is leaning against the counter in front of you. 

“So, I see you're no stranger to being cut up, liebling,” he greets you, and you flinch. 

He saw. But wait. Why are you here? Where are you?

You remember it in fragments, then all at once. 

“Oh my God. Strade, what... what is this?” You ask, weakly, a heavy sinking feeling in your gut. 

“Exactly what it looks like, buddy. I want to get to know you better.”

He smiles. 

“You looked so sad the first night I saw you, but you were with people. I didn't think I'd see you again, but tonight there you were.”

He crouches in front of you, and you finally notice the large hunting knife in his hand. 

“It's fate, liebling.” 

He runs the knife down your throat and collarbones, nicking you here and there, and then he's cutting off your clothes. He's careless, slicing you up as he goes. You whine and begin to cry softly, terror setting in.

For once, you don't want to die. 

He stands then, gripping your chin and looking at you. 

“You've got pretty eyes, liebling.” He practically coos. 

And then he shoves two fingers into your left eye, up to the knuckle. You scream in pain, trying to jerk back, but his other hand grips the base of your neck, holding you still as he twists his fingers and then s c o o p s your eye right out of your head. You feel it dangling, resting on your cheek for a moment before he grabs it and 

r i p s

it out. 

It's the worst pain you've ever experienced and you're screaming and sobbing and your fucking EYE is gone oh my god oh myg od oh m-

He slaps you hard and you manage to stop screaming long enough to look at him with your remaining eye. He's staring at the ruined mess in his hand. Then at you.

Then he smiles and grips your jaw and starts to squeeze.

Your mouth opens before you realize what he's about to do and then he's shoving it into your mouth and you're choking on it and gagging and you're going to be sick but you can't be sick.

He works your throat with his hand until you swallow automatically, and then he smiles. 

“That wasn't so bad, huh?” 

You glare at him with your one eye and spit, voice laced with venom.

“Fuck you.”

He takes exception to that. 

He walks over to a drawer, too far for you to see what he's doing. Besides, your depth perception is ruined now. And what vision is left is blurred from tears. 

He returns with a pair of gardening shears, the little handheld ones, and your blood runs cold. 

“What... What are you going to do with those?” You whimper, pressing back against the post you're tied to.

“You'll see, liebling. Just hold still for me.”

He's behind you then, and you feel the cold bite of metal against your right pinky, ring, and middle fingers. 

And then he closes down on them hard and you scream again as he slices through skin and bone. There's a soft noise as your fingers drop to the floor, thump thump thump, but he just moves straight to the other hand, repeating his previous actions while you scream and beg for him to stop.

Your face is wet with snot and tears and spit and blood and you're breaking. 

You hope he kills you soon. 

But he's not feeling that merciful right now. In fact, you've gotten him excited. 

He unties the ropes tying you and wraps it around your neck, like a leash. 

Like a noose. 

He shoves you down, pulling the rope taut enough that you choke, scrambling for a grip with your useless hands on the rope that is biting into your skin. 

His other hand is tugging your underwear down. 

He relaxes the rope as the blunt head of his cock presses against your unprepared entrance and you suck in a ragged breath, dropping your forehead to the floor and letting out a pitiful sob.

And then he pushes inside of you, half of him entering on the first thrust, tearing you and stretching you and this is NOT what you wanted when you wished for a casual hookup. 

He rolls his hips slowly, sliding in and out of you with only your blood to act as lubricant. It's tight and the burn of the stretch hasn't even begun to fade when he pushes the rest of the way in and pulls the rope taut again. 

You struggle, squirming on the floor, and he fucks into you at a wild and rough pace. His thrusts are too uneven for you to adjust, some deep and some shallow. He's just taking what he wants. 

But even so, he's big enough to hit a spot inside you that makes you feel... something other than pain. 

He doesn't hit it every time, because this isn't for you, but he hits it enough that you make noises, and he laughs, relaxing the rope again.

“Oh, do you like that, liebling? You're enjoying this? You really are sick, aren't you?” 

He grabs you by the hair and shoves your face roughly against the floor and then he REALLY starts fucking you, pounding into you mercilessly as you gasp and cry and moan.

“You're... so... tight.” He grunts, pulling your hair so you gasp in pain. 

He loves to watch you suffer. 

His hips begin to jerk a bit more wildly, and you sob with relief when he finally buries himself to the hilt one final time, filling you. He pulls out, wiping himself clean on your underwear, and you lay there, limp on the floor. 

“Oh, liebling, I don't think you're going to last much longer,” he sighs, and you cry harder. 

“Please...” you beg, “please let me go.”

He steps around you to grab his knife on the counter, stepping on your mangled hand with one black boot, grinding his heel a bit while you cry out in agony. Then he steps back and straddles your hips, running the blade down the center of your back. 

“Don't worry, buddy! I'll put you to good use.”

And then he's cutting into your back, knife slicing deep before he turns it slightly and drags it beneath your flesh, separating skin from muscle messily, haphazardly. Carelessly. 

He's skinning you alive.

You scream, fighting, but he just laughs and grabs you by the head, slamming your face once against the concrete, breaking your nose. 

You choke on the blood and your brain goes fuzzy, you're limp under him as he flays your back open, but you feel it. You keep sobbing and screaming and begging until your voice fails you, the blood loss too much. 

Before the shock and blood loss finally kill you, you see him lay a large chunk of your own bloody skin on the floor beside you. 

You died: Strade skinned you alive.


End file.
